CHAPTER XIII
In May we sold our loved hill nest in Berkeley and started north, stopping for a three months' vacation—our first real vacation since we had been married—at Castle Crags, where, almost ten years before, we had spent the first five days of our honeymoon, before going into Southern Oregon. There, in a log-cabin among the pines, we passed unbelievably cherished days—work a-plenty, play a-plenty, and the family together day in, day out. There was one little extra trip he got in with the two sons, for which I am so thankful. The three of them went off with their sleeping-bags and rods for two days, leaving "the girls" behind. Each son caught his first trout with a fly. They put the fish, cleaned, in a cool sheltered spot, because they had to be carried home for me to see; and lo! a little bear came down in the night and ate the fish, in addition to licking the fat all off the frying-pan.
Then, like a bolt from the blue, came the fateful telegram from Washington, D.C.—labor difficulties in construction-work at Camp Lewis—would he report there at once as Government Mediator. Oh! the Book, the Book—the Book that was to be finished without fail before the new work at the University of Washington began! Perhaps he would be back in a week! Surely he would be back in a week! So he packed just enough for a week, and off he went. One week! When, after four weeks, there was still no let up in his mediation duties,—in fact they increased,—I packed up the family and we left for Seattle. I had rewound his fishing-rod with orange silk, and had revarnished it, as a surprise for his home-coming to Castle Crags. He never fished with it again.
How that man loved fishing! How he loved every sport, for that matter. And he loved them with the same thoroughness and allegiance that he gave to any cause near his heart. Baseball—he played on his high-school team (also he could recite "Casey at the Bat" with a gusto that many a friend of the earlier days will remember. And here I am reminded of his "Christopher Columnibus." I recently ran across a postcard a college mate sent Carl from Italy years ago, with a picture of a statue of Columbus on it. On the reverse side the friend had written, quoting from Carl's monologue: "'Boom Joe!' says the king; which is being interpreted, 'I see you first.' 'Wheat cakes,' says Chris, which is the Egyptian for 'Boom Joe'"). He loved football, track,—he won three gold medals broad-jumping,—canoeing, swimming, billiards,—he won a loving cup at that, tennis, ice-skating, hand-ball; and yes, ye of finer calibre, quiver if you will—he loved a prize-fight and played a mighty good game of poker, as well as bridge—though in the ten and a half years that we were married I cannot remember that he played poker once or bridge more than five times. He did, however, enjoy his bridge with Simon Patton in Philadelphia; and when he played, he played well.
I tell you there was hardly anything the man could not do. He could draw the funniest pictures you ever saw—I wish I could reproduce the letters he sent his sons from the East. He was a good carpenter—the joy it meant to his soul to add a second-hand tool ever so often to his collection! Sunday morning was special carpenter-time—new shelves here, a bookcase there, new steps up to the swimming-tank, etc. I have heard many a man say that he told a story better than any one they ever heard. He was an expert woodsman. And, my gracious! how he did love babies! That hardly fits in just here, but I think of it now. His love for children colored his whole economic viewpoint.
"There is the thing that possessed Parker—the perception of the destructive significance of the repressed and balked instincts of the migratory worker, the unskilled, the casuals, the hoboes, the womanless, jobless, voteless men. To him their tragedy was akin to the tragedy of child-life in our commercialized cities. More often than of anything else, he used to talk to me of the fatuous blindness of a civilization that centred its economic activities in places where child-life was perpetually repressed and imperiled. The last time I saw him he was flaming indignation at the ghastly record of children killed and maimed by trucks and automobiles. What business had automobiles where children should be free to play? What could be said for the human wisdom of a civilization that placed traffic above child-life? In our denial to children, to millions of men and women, of the means for satisfying their instinctive desires and innate dispositions, he saw the principal explanation of crime, labor-unrest, the violence of strikes, the ghastly violence of war[1]."
[1] Robert Bruère, in the New Republic, May 18, 1918.
He could never pass any youngster anywhere without a word of greeting as from friend to friend. I remember being in a crowded car with him in our engaged days. He was sitting next to a woman with a baby who was most unhappy over the ways of the world. Carl asked if he could not hold the squaller. The mother looked a bit doubtful, but relinquished her child. Within two minutes the babe was content on Carl's knees, clutching one of his fingers in a fat fist and sucking his watch. The woman leaned over to me later, as she was about to depart with a very sound asleep offspring. "Is he as lovely as that to his own?"
The tenderness of him over his own! Any hour of the day or night he was alert to be of any service in any trouble, big or little. He had a collection of tricks and stories on hand for any youngster who happened along. The special pet of our own boys was "The Submarine Obo Bird"—a large flapper (Dad's arms fairly rent the air), which was especially active early in the morning, when small boys appeared to prefer staying in bed to getting up. The Obo Bird went "Pak! Pak!" and lit on numerous objects about the sleeping porch. Carl's two hands would plump stiff, fingers down, on the railing, or on a small screw sticking out somewhere. Scratches. Then "Pak!" and more flaps. This time the Obo Bird would light a trifle nearer the small boy whose "turn" it was—round eyes, and an agitated grin from ear to ear, plus explosive giggles and gurglings emerging from the covers. Nearer and nearer came the Obo Bird. Gigglier and gigglier got the small boy. Finally, with a spring and a last "Pak! Pak! Pak!" the Obo Bird dove under the covers at the side of the bed and pinched the small boy who would not get up. (Rather a premium on not rising promptly was the Obo Bird.) Final ecstatic squeals from the pinched. Then, "Now it's my turn, daddo!" from the other son.—The Submarine Obo Bird lived in Alaska and ate Spooka biscuits. There was just developing a wee Obo Bird, that made less vehement "paks!" and pinched less agitatedly—a special June-Bug Obo Bird. In fact, the baby was not more than three months old when the boys demanded a Submarine Obo Bird that ate little Spooka biscuits for sister.